Incident in a French Country Churchyard
I can’t remember the name of the Norman village, but perhaps
It doesn’t matter. One of those little places first laid down
Stone by stone more than four centuries ago. On a bluff
Rise above the main thoroughfare, a tiny gaunt church,
Before which a little lawn, and a large block of charcoal grey
Granite, inscribed, in modern times, in the French. My
Memory of the exact wording’s indistinct, and my French worse,
But the gist was unmistakable: “We of this town of ______,
Which endured the German occupation for four long years,
We who resisted, fought underground, prayed for the day of
Liberation, now celebrate and commemorate our freedom from
Tyranny, and vow never to be dominated again by the pigs!”
A passionate hatred, I thought, is many times greater than
The need to forget, to forgive, to pass over in silence that which
We cannot accept. The terms of occupation being involuntary,
We bear them grinding our teeth against the possibility of
Emancipation, or escape—not for freedom alone, or relief, or
Exhaustion, but a fine, devout, biblical revenge, etched in stone.
The thrust, and the blood, and the forsaken cries of birds at
The start of another Winter.
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